PATHOGENS: Who Will Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? (Click Your Poison Book 4)

by James Schannep

  She’s alive! Thank you, God. Your eyes swell with tears of joy.

  “You wouldn’t believe how people actin’ a fool in here. Sit, sit. What’s it like out there? You okay? Sweatin’ like a beast, ain’t you?”

  She leads you to the kitchen table and sets you in a chair, then brings water. After you drink, you say, “It’s bad, mama. People—people are saying… zombies.”

  She laughs and waves the word away. “Zombies. Ha! Back when I was a girl, in Africa, Nzambi was the name of a god. You sayin’ we have gods walkin’ around now? Ha!”

  “I don’t know what it is, mama. But I think that doctor on TV and his ‘eternal life’ drug has something to do with it, so maybe ‘gods’ ain’t too far off! Gods, devils…end of days.”

  She doesn’t answer right away, but you can tell that hits her. At length, she says, “Let me make you some breakfast, boy.”

  When she turns and opens the refrigerator, you see spotting on her blouse; at the shoulder. It’s dark, almost crimson and you barely notice—but it’s there.

  “Mama, what happened?” you say. When she doesn’t answer, you get up. “Mama! You’re hurt, what happened?”

  “Sit back down now. I’m makin’ breakfast.”

  Instead, you rush over and pull at her shirt. She cries out in protest and swats your hand, but not before you see it. The wide collar of her blouse stretches to reveal two rows of teeth marks—upper and lower—swollen and puffy.

  She’s been bitten.

  You fall back like you’ve just been struck. “Mama…what happened? Please…”

  She’s starts crying, but wipes it away. “Ms. Alaina, she was wailin’. I want to see if she okay, but she is not. Not all, son. She attacked me and…I tried to call the police, but no one is answerin’! I got out, though. I got out.”

  “When was this?” you hear yourself say, but the words feel hollow.

  “She woke me up this morning. Crying and crying. Goin’ on an’ all.”

  Now you’re crying. You can’t help it, it just comes out.

  “Tyberius! Stop that now! Can’t we…I wanna make you breakfast, okay?”

  “Okay, mama,” you say, trying to compose yourself.

  She turns back and starts beating the eggs. At length, you sit back down, but you can’t stop your shoulders from shuddering. You can’t push out the pain, no matter how hard you try. It lives in your chest now, a part of you.

  Mama must hear the weeping, because she starts humming to herself as she cooks. You force yourself to watch her cook, not letting another goddamn thought in your head. You just watch, living in this moment alone. Mama making you breakfast. Humming to herself.

  She delivers the plate with a forced smile and it reminds you of the morning after your brother Julian died. For her sake, you eat the food, just like that day, giving mmm’s of pleasure.

  “Do…” she says, in almost a croak. It sits there in the air for a moment, then she clears her throat. “Want…juice?”

  “Sure, mama.”

  She goes back to the fridge and you eat. Truth be told, it’s good, and you’re starving. She left you a full plate and you wolf it down. You’ve got a mouthful of eggs when there’s a loud crash. The sound takes your eyes to the kitchen floor, where there’s porcelain from a broken mug mixed in with orange juice.

  Looking up, you see your mama just watching her hand, which sits open, numb. Her mouth is open too, moving, like she’s trying to talk but can’t. Like she’s having a stroke. The refrigerator kicks on to a louder setting as the open door makes the appliance think the temperature is too high.

  “Mama?”

  Her head snaps towards you, a look in her eyes you’ve never seen before. Her breath comes out husky, as if she’s still trying to speak. She takes an uncertain step towards you.

  “Mama, no no no. Please, God, no….”

  Now she’s practically growling and raises both arms towards you, clawing at the air with her one hand.

  • Try and hold her. She’s your mama, she’ll snap out of it.

  • Fight her off. You can’t let her scratch or bite you.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Misery Loves Company

  “I’m not in any misery, I promise!” Brian shouts.

  “You can’t just kill a man because he’s wounded,” Stephen says.

  “He’s not wounded,” you counter. “He’s infected.”

  “We don’t know how this works yet,” Craig says.

  Owen steps forward. “It’s true, Kay. Maybe he’ll recover? We just don’t know.”

  “Fine. If you all lack the sack to do it, I will. But I will not be the next link in a chain of victims,” you say, taking the wrench and walking over to Brian.

  Brian scuttles backwards on his rear, cradling his ruined arm. Genuine fear in his eyes. No one wants to die, but the alternative to a quick death is rotting in the trunk of a Honda right now. You raise the wrench, but a sucker punch hits you in the back of the head.

  “Crazy, murderous bitch!” Stephen yells.

  It takes you by complete surprise, and you fall to the floor before Brian. The frightened man looks to you, to the wrench, then up to Stephen. Grabbing the wrench, you turn and hit Stephen in the shin. He screams out in pain and stumbles back while you gain your footing. Craig pulls out a multi-tool survival knife from a pouch on his belt and brandishes the blade, trying to look threatening.

  “You better be prepared to kill me, Craig,” you growl.

  “That’s enough!” Owen shouts.

  You send an icy glare towards your boss, holding the wrench ready, like a cornered animal.

  “Give me the knife,” Stephen says.

  “Stay out of it!” you scream. “I’m doing him a mercy. I’d do it for each and every one of you.”

  Wrong thing to say. Craig reaches out to hand the knife to Stephen, so you rush forward with a barbarian’s battle cry, hoping to cut him off. Stephen reaches out to take the knife and you swing the wrench at his arms.

  He turns with the knife, just in time to intercept you, plunging the knife deep into your gut. Everything freezes for a moment, like the group needs a minute to process what’s happened. You push away from Stephen, the knife sliding cleanly from the wound.

  You fall to the floor, dark blood and bile pouring from the stomach wound.

  “God damn it! Look what you made me do!” Stephen says.

  With any luck, you’ll bleed out before Brian rises again. Gut wounds are a slow death, and you’ve got six hours on the clock.

  THE END

  Monster Truck

  You take everything from the Jeep and abandon the vehicle, in favor of sleeping in the semi-truck tonight. The tunnel is full of slain Zulu, but you’ve seen enough horror movies not to walk too close to the corpses.

  Jason steps up, opens the passenger door to the truck, and a snarl catches your attention. From the cab of the semi-truck, the driver tumbles out on top of you. You slam against the pavement, but your paintball armor absorbs most of the blow. Even better, the viscera streaming from the gaping maw of the man hits your plexiglass mask and not your face.

  You put your hands up to block the attack, and the trucker bites down on your forearm. Jason blasts the truck driver’s head clean off with his sixteen-gauge and you get to your feet. Checking the bite wound, you see that the Kevlar sleeve just saved your life. It hurt like a bitch, but you’re left unscathed.

  The rest of the truck is empty, and fairly clean, for having housed a living-dead driver. The door is a little gross from where the ghoul tried to claw his way out, but you can avoid that side. Safely inside, you clean your helmet and body armor with some wet-naps from the glovebox.

  “Where should we go tomorrow?” you ask.

  Jason doesn’t reply. Instead, he hands you the map and compass. You unfold the map, take note of the tunnel, and see what’s nearby. The map gets a little “fuzzy” outside of town; that is to say, everything surrounding civilization is marked by a unified
green blotch.

  • Stay close to home. Your shooting range isn’t far off, and it’s better to stick close than to head off into unfamiliar territory.

  • Into the woods. We can find supplies and a more detailed terrain map at a Ranger Station—Helpful, knowledgeable, friendly!

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  A Mother’s Love

  You stand and wrap your arms around your mother, crying as you do. For a moment, she just stands there in your embrace, allowing herself to be hugged. It’s all going to be all right. Then she bites you, right in the chest, and pain forces you to push her away.

  She comes for you again, and you grab her by the wrist, swinging the small woman around and taking her under the chin with your other arm. The bear hug works, and though she struggles mightily, you have her immobilized.

  The blood from your chest stains through your clothes and into her blouse, but eventually stops. You can’t be sure how long you hold her, but eventually she stops too. Hesitant, you release her, and she steps away. When she finally turns around, she looks right through you. Whatever courses through your blood has done its damage, enough that she no longer sees you as prey. She sees you as an equal.

  And with that, you’ll be together forever.

  You’re INFECTED!

  Motorin’

  The motorpool is essentially an enormous garage-style warehouse. You’ve never been in here before, but everyone has seen the outside of the building. It’s where the bus drops you off on in-processing day.

  Parked inside is that same prison bus and three patrol cruisers. Along the side walls are several stations for washing, maintenance, refueling, tire rotation, that kind of thing. And a singular, obvious-to-spot board with all the keys. They’re helpfully labeled too! All you have to do is hit the button to open the gigantic, rolling garage door, claim your vehicle, and you’re free!

  There’s a big, red, plunger-style button by the garage door. You slap the button, and the motor kicks on, painfully loud. Guards and nutters alike will surely heed the call. Time to head out.

  • Take a cruiser.

  • Take the bus.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Must be True

  Everyone gathers in the lobby, where the TV currently plays a racing DVD. When you flip the input to cable TV the screen shows a handsome man in a lab coat giving a press conference, smiling brightly against the flash of cameras. The headline reads, “Will YOU Live Forever?”

  You turn the channel, where Jennifer Lawrence appears on the set of Colbert, but something feels off. Neither are moving or speaking. Finally, he just wheezes and his eyes glaze over. It looks like the man had a tiny, almost imperceptible stroke.

  “Stephen?” Jennifer says.

  The camera pulls back and Colbert turns to face his guest, and both motions occur eerily at the same speed.

  “Are you—” she says, putting a hand on his.

  Suddenly he’s got her wrist and is pulling, hard. At the same time, he lunges over the desk, trying to get to her. She screams and punches the TV host with her free hand. She’s got a mean left hook, but it doesn’t even register, and Colbert claws at the starlet with his own free hand.

  You turn the channel, this time to the local blonde eye-candy newswoman. Alison Argyle, oddly calm, reads from the teleprompter, “In an ironic twist, it seems many of those killed are users of the new longevity wonder drug Gilgazyme®. It’s still unknown if there is a connection between the drug and the homicide sweep hitting major urban centers across the country. No spokesperson for the creators of Gilgazyme® has agreed to comment as of this broadcast…”

  “Go back to the other one,” Brian says.

  When you do, the anchor is saying, “Shia LaBeouf, best known for the Transformers series, who was reported to have died yesterday is…still alive. The first reports came through Twitter, but sightings of the young star have been confirmed in downtown Los Angeles.”

  The television is suddenly taken into local control and your community Sheriff appears on the screen. You change the channel instinctively, but it’s all the same. You’re not sure, but it seems that something like this hasn’t happened in decades. With so many channels…

  “The Governor has declared a state of emergency,” the Sheriff announces. “But we are as of yet unprepared for any sort of mass evacuation. We’re working as hard as we can to set up aid stations and sanctuaries. In the meantime, work with friends and neighbors. Find a group. Nobody can beat this thing alone. And… we need all the help we can get.”

  The image switches to a stationary, soundless Please Stand By message. There you have it. You’re on your own, but so is everyone else.

  “So…it’s not just the phone company,” Stephen says dryly.

  “From the look of the TV, it’s the whole country,” Brian answers.

  “Or the world,” Owen says. They all look to him, so he continues, “How long has this Gilgazyme® thing been on the market? Couple of weeks, right? And I’m sure the richest of the rich got it early. Arab sheiks, foreign dictators; tell me who wouldn’t kill to live forever? Well, they’re killing for it now, that’s for damn sure.”

  “But it’ll pass, right?” you ask. “I mean, it’s going to be bad, sure. But it’ll pass.”

  “Maybe,” Owen replies.

  “The apocalypse,” Craig says, reverence in his voice.

  “An extinction event,” Stephen agrees.

  “Bullshit,” you say. “It’ll pass. We just need to…

  • …Head home; wait this thing out with family.”

  • …Lock the garage down tight. Right here, right now.”

  • …Get supplies. Split up and meet back here.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Nature’s Path

  After promising to see the families again soon at Camp Salvation, you leave at dawn. Now you enjoy the cool of the morning as you hike along the marshes. With daylight to guide your trail, you’re able to stick to the higher ground and avoid the thickest parts of the swamps.

  Even so, your exposed armor quickly swells with moisture, and you’re left feeling like a hiker with soggy socks. You’ll have to make sure to air them out tonight. Swamp water warmed by body heat and left to simmer in a dark, dank sock is the exact formula for fungal growth.

  Putting your mind elsewhere, the glades seem almost too serene, compared to the chaos of the city. It reminds you of a poster from Master Hanzo’s office that reads, “When it seems the country is in ruins, remember there are still mountains and rivers.”

  Sage advice when the people of the city are eating one another.

  * * *

  It’s still early, perhaps not even yet noon, when you arrive at the setting of Liam and Stella’s neighborhood. With the twins under Master Hanzo’s care, they’re safe for now, but if you can’t find their parents, what will you do? Could children so young hike from the inner city with you to Salvation? Could Master Hanzo? The man is strong of spirit, but he barely walks a hundred steps in any given day.

  The peaceful birdsongs are replaced by screeching home alarms, the clean air by rot and excrement. A thick black cloud hovers over the neighborhood, an ominous sign of smoldering house fires. How is it that even a neighborhood on the outskirts of town has already fallen to the scourge? Perhaps the quarantine was not the start of it all, but a last effort to stall the inevitable?

  That’s when you arrive. Their house has scratch-marks on the door and boarded windows, and a message spray-painted across the door and siding, “SICK INSIDE.”

  • I must see for myself. I’ve come so far; I can at least put the twins’ parents to rest.

  • I will heed this warning. Time to focus on the living: Master Hanzo and the twins need me.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Neo-Nazi Zombies!

  You round the corner of the laundry building, hot on Solitary’s heels. He runs hard, but so do you, desperate to get away from the trigger-happy guards back in the armory. The sweeping searchlights can’
t reach you from the shadows of the cafeteria, but it looks like Solitary is heading towards the prison hospital.

  Bad idea, you think. If these nutters are sick, that’ll be ground zero for patient zero, and you’ll have zero chance in there. You’re just about to say as much when Solitary makes a hard turn towards the entrance to the machine shop. It sits on the back side of the laundry building, and you immediately get it—no weapons from the armory? What’s next best thing?

  Solitary does the key-dance, trying to move quickly, but it’s dark out and that’s a big ring of keys. A hungry moan draws your attention from the base of the hospital where a skinhead corpse, missing its lower half, claws towards you. What’s worse, his moaning draws in more of the fiends.

  Suddenly the busted-out infirmary windows pulse with life as every goddamned white supremacist in the prison pours out like worms from a rotten apple. Some fall from the top windows, three stories up, but the sickening slap of their bodies against the pavement does little to slow them.

  Just as the KKK horde reaches the machine shop, someone grabs you. As you scream and spin around, you see that Solitary has the door open, and it’s he who pulls you in.

  You slam the door, glad to have a building between you and the army of nutters, but the machine shop’s large windows are a concern, even if they are reinforced by mesh wire. Solitary moves quickly, claiming a nail gun and some loose two-by-fours, and works to board up the windows.

  • Great idea! Help him secure the machine shop.

  • That’ll only slow the bastards down—look for a back way out.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Neutral Evil

  “What for?” the doctor says.

  Do you really have to explain why being among a cast of troublemakers sounds better than staying with the infirm and infected? Not in a way you can articulate, so you just shove her away and flip over your cot. You kick the sick woman’s bucket away, spraying the far side of the tent with the worst fluids to come out of a person.